The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries. Sara Alexander
road snaked through the cacophony of the port, the sea of visitors embarking on their voyages. We were at a convergence of conflicting shoals swimming toward new lives, some fleeing, others, like me, returning. How many of them felt like their homeland was a strange new world? Little by little the crowds gave way to the hills I hadn’t admitted I’d missed. We climbed toward the southern tip, curving in and out of the landscape till Sorrento opened up below us, clusters of pink, pale yellow and spring blue homes rising from the grey stony cliffs, the Tyrrhenian turquoise limpid in the fattening midday sun.
Onward we drove, a sleepy Elizabeth lulled into dreams by the engine, as we began the climb toward the narrowing coastal road. The vineyards plump with purple fruit crawled up and down the hillsides beside us, the lemon trees stretched out their branches to the sun, each fruit a burst of yellow in the golden light. Another sharp turn and the coast opened up to us, defiant rocks to our left rising from deep in the cerulean water beneath. The view of my mountains unfolded like a concertina picture book with each new bend, till the entire range was in view, each further grand cliff edge painted a lighter shade of grey in the blanching sun, and beside it a mineral-green sea. Here we were circling its edge, tiny people in a metal box, carving through, inconsequential, at its mercy. My home hadn’t missed me.
The driver took a final bend. The cluster of Positano revealed itself. The houses were more colorful than I had remembered, clutching the cliff face like a scatter of shells left by the lingua di mare as we called it, the tongue of the sea, which sometimes even reached the stradone, our main street, especially during the winter storms. My mind raced up my hills: perhaps my brother was somewhere amongst them still? Perhaps returning offered me more than the failure of my new life? Perhaps recoiling into this past was a chance to find some peace within it?
The car pulled to a standstill at the foot of the Via Guglielmo Marconi. The ascent to our new home would be on foot up the staggered steps and narrow walkways. Several porters poised at the start of the stairs, two of them with donkeys saddled with empty baskets ready to carry our luggage. When Adeline saw the animals she reached out her hand, but the Major slipped his in hers before she could touch any of them. We climbed, silenced by our weariness and anticipation. The Major’s steps were assured. It felt like he had been living here some time already.
The alley narrowed, and a tired Elizabeth began a hungry rouse. We passed on behind several large villas, bougainvillea trailing down toward the cobbles, a smattering of twisted paper garlands of purple and fuchsia meeting the sandy stone below, snaking succulents twisting along the boundary garden walls toward the light, gnarled wisteria branches creeping along the backs of the houses. The dusty air was toasted from the warmth of the day, stony and infused with the whisper of drying pine. The alley dipped now and passed under an archway, curved round toward more steps and a second relentless incline. Our footsteps ricocheted against those thick back walls of the neighboring villas flanking the cobbles. At last we reached the final dozen steps, uneven with age and passage. At the top loomed the cathedral doors of the Crabtrees’ new home. The Major wrapped an arm around Adeline as her eyes widened to the sea view spreading out beneath us, blotting into the hazy horizon beyond Capri. Even Elizabeth quietened her hungry wails for a brief moment. We stood still, we four weary travellers, the sounds of the donkeys carrying our loads approaching with steady clops along the stony incline behind us.
The Major rang the bell. We waited. One of the two enormous doors opened.
‘Buon giorno, signore,’ said a woman, stepping back to welcome us.
‘Grazie,’ he replied, hooking his arm into Adeline’s and ushering her inside without hurry. A long terrace stretched out before us. At the far end there was a stone well, by the looks of it an original feature of the house. At no stage of the preparations had the Major described the majesty of the home he had chosen, and I certainly had no intention of prying. Now I found myself within the walls of the baroque merchant villa that I had admired from the shore as I daydreamed my life beyond Positano. When I had escaped the beady eyes of Signora Cavaldi, just long enough to take a moment along the screaming shore of fishermen, hard at work sorting their catch, dyeing their nets, the air heavy with pine bark as they dipped their loads into the vats to color them, this was the pink house I had looked up at. I’d filled in the gaps of its fairytale history, played out unlikely endings of its inhabitants now lost to our shipwrecked history as a kingdom when Amalfi was bright with mercantile riches.
I felt my leg shake a little. I walked toward the well, noticing the huge terracotta urns in each corner of the terrace. I pointed up to the heavy wooden-beamed ceiling above, but Elizabeth was intent on being fed. I think we all were.
‘Santina, please take Elizabeth into one of the rooms. I will deal with the porters.’
I nodded as I did so, catching sight of Adeline resting in one of the lounge chairs facing the sea. The columns on either side of the lookout framed the deepening blue of the sea like a painting. The water was serene and from that view it felt as if you could trace your fingers along it just beyond the stone balustrade.
The cool dark of the rooms inside silenced Elizabeth for a moment. I looked around and saw a divan in one corner where I could lay her down whilst I prepared a bottle. She stretched her small body, creased with travel. I wondered if she could see the magnificent Rococo painted decoration above her, great swirls of red, yellow and blue upon the wooden beams. Bottle in hand I raised her onto my lap and she suckled with eagerness. It was stony quiet but for the soft swallows of the child.
A large wooden dining table was at one end of the room, surrounded by six high-backed green velvet upholstered chairs. A heavy mahogany dresser was beside it. The wooden shutters were closed against the heat and we sat in the wide shaft of light from the terrace. It felt like the home had been empty for some time. It smelled like a forgotten place, a locked-up palace whose tiles had not been stepped across for some time. I imagined the woman who had let us in must have been paid to prepare it for our arrival, yet the sensation of a place awakening without hurry was palpable. No sooner had I thought about her than her face appeared around the doorway.
‘Salve, I’m Rosalia,’ she said, offering a hand, which I struggled to shake.
‘Piacere – Santina,’ I replied.
‘Yes! I thought I recognized you – aren’t you the Cavaldi girl?’
Her question made me bristle. I was no more the Cavaldi girl than she was my mother.
‘I worked there for a while, yes,’ I replied.
‘You work with the English now?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s wrong with the lady?’
‘She’s just had a baby.’
The young woman waited for me to elaborate, her little black eyes twinkling with anticipation. We both realized I wouldn’t.
‘Well, Santina,’ she began, breaking my silence, ‘if you need anything please just ask – I live just down the way, Via Stefano Andres, number eight.’
‘Thank you, Rosalia.’
She flashed me a wide grin. I mirrored her, intrigued by her clumsy curiosity in spite of myself.
*
Elizabeth had drifted into a brief afternoon nap, which afforded me time to unpack the little we had brought with us. The Major led me up the wide stone steps that wove through the core of the house to the two upper floors. When we reached the top he showed me to Adeline’s room.
‘I will take care of the initial arrangements over the next week or so. There will be daily deliveries which I’ve coordinated in such a manner as I deem most beneficial to all of us.’
He read my furrowed brow.
‘And I assure you that your education, besides the matters at hand, is high on my list of priorities. I have little care to look at your creased confusion any more than you must do feeling it.’
I creased a little more.
‘You